


Apocalypse

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftermath of Violence, Blood, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Historical References, Military, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, War, aftermath of suicide, dead bodies, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: Deep and dark. This is a bad one and I fully understand if you don't want to read it. The overarching story will still make sense if you keep in mind that there was a very dark episode here.Despite the title, this has nothing to do with the current pandemic. I wrote this some months ago and apparently had the zeitgeist pegged for March 2020. This is about the aftermath of brutal siege warfare. If you have read my previous fics, you know where this is going and then it's going a good bit further. It gets progressively worse as you read on so if you find something upsetting, please stop.Warnings, in particular, for blood and dead bodies, as well as suicidal thoughts and the aftermath of suicide.The next fic posted in this series will be tens of thousands of words of tender loving care, I promise. We'll all need it. All the best to you and all those you love in these difficult months.
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Deep and dark. This is a bad one and I fully understand if you don't want to read it. The overarching story will still make sense if you keep in mind that there was a very dark episode here.  
> Despite the title, this has nothing to do with the current pandemic. I wrote this some months ago and apparently had the zeitgeist pegged for March 2020. This is about the aftermath of brutal siege warfare. If you have read my previous fics, you know where this is going and then it's going a good bit further. It gets progressively worse as you read on so if you find something upsetting, please stop.  
> Warnings, in particular, for blood and dead bodies, as well as suicidal thoughts and the aftermath of suicide.  
> The next fic posted in this series will be tens of thousands of words of tender loving care, I promise. We'll all need it. All the best to you and all those you love in these difficult months.

"Athos."

The man's head shot up immediately. He nodded, acknowledging Tréville's call, and got to his feet. Other musketeers clapped him on the shoulder and swayed drunkenly into his path, but Athos sidestepped them with a nimbleness that suggested he hadn't been indulging. He wound his way through the crowd, determined to reach Tréville as fast as he could. This smart, noble man followed his command without question or hesitation. Tréville sighed out a huge breath.

He wasn't the only one watching Athos. As involved as Porthos was in the conversation around their table, he'd shifted as soon as Athos got up. His eyes followed him, racing across the mass of musketeers, flickering to Tréville. Some thought Porthos slow, but Tréville knew better than that. He had his father's sharp wit, coupled with his mother's kind heart. He was assessing how best to assist his friend.

"Porthos," Tréville called, beckoning him over.

Porthos' whole face lit up. He slid off the bench in an instant. It warmed Tréville to see Porthos so eager to follow his command and be by his side. Undeserved, but comforting.

Where Athos stepped around their comrades, Porthos pushed straight through. His eyes rarely left Athos' back as he steadily gained on his friend. Finally, he grabbed Athos' shoulder and gave it a good squeeze. One corner of Athos' mouth twitched upwards. Porthos grinned from ear to ear.

The humanity gave Tréville hope. He set his jaw and tightened his fists. He didn't want to do this.

"Aramis," he called, nonetheless.

He almost hoped that the third of his Inseparables wouldn't hear. He was so caught up in conversation, men laughing all around him. Maybe he wouldn't hear, wouldn't get up, wouldn't come, wouldn't follow him in this.

But Aramis swivelled in his seat. He seemed surprised to see his friends already nearly at Tréville's side and gave him a quick wave before saying something to the others. The men roared with laughter at the comment he made. Someone proposed a toast and they all raised their cups as he stood. Aramis gave them a mock salute and a fanciful bow, then left them to clamour among themselves as he sauntered away.

Tréville sighed. He didn't want this, didn't want Aramis to come. He didn't want to ruin this hard-won confidence, to bring this wonderful man to his knees once more. But he needed him. He shouldn't. Not after all Aramis had been through. He watched Aramis smile and exchange some witty comment with a few men, never stopping his progress. Hadn't that man suffered enough? Hadn't _he_ made him suffer enough? But there he was. Still smiling. Still following the command of the one who'd very nearly sent him to his death.

"Captain." Porthos grinned at him. Kindness and wit, the son he'd never have. Tréville smiled back at him with some difficulty.

"Captain Tréville, how may we be of service?" Athos tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows. He'd learned so much of command over the past year. Enough to understand how serious a matter had to be to make him call them now.

It could have waited, of course. He could have told them in the morning. He should have. Shouldn't have ruined their night. They deserved this celebration, had earned the victory with their blood and tears. They didn't need this tonight, but he did.

"You haven't had a single drop to drink." Aramis grimaced and shook his head. "You've worked so hard for this!"

Porthos chuckled at his fervour and cuffed him in the arm, but Tréville caught the even look behind Aramis' easy merriment. They had all worked hard to end this siege. He had worked as hard as he could for Aramis' cause as well, attempted to make it easier for the Protestants, to advocate for benevolence. Aramis knew that much, even if he had no idea why he was owed such a debt.

A debt Tréville was making even greater with this request.

"I need you to ride with me after muster tomorrow morning," he said. Heads nodded all around.

"We'll be ready," Athos said. As taciturn as he was, they let him speak for them.

"Where are we going?" Aramis asked.

Tréville cleared his throat. Still time to reconsider.

"The king wants to hold a victory parade and the cardinal will celebrate mass on All Saints Day in La Rochelle." He didn't breathe, didn't look up, simply ploughed on ahead before he thought better of it. "We need to make sure the route is secure, that there isn't anyone hiding in the city who could pose a danger to his majesty."

"Of course," Porthos said. Loyal Porthos. Always there. He didn't deserve him.

Tréville didn't dare to look at Aramis, didn't want to see if he'd paled, if he was afraid, as afraid as all of them should be.

"I need your eyes," he said. "I need you there. You've been in the city recently."

That was his excuse. It wasn't a bad one. But really, they'd be able to find a church without his help. His men would be fine, but he wouldn't. Aramis was the reason Tréville was alive, his reason to keep going after the massacre in Savoy. And there he was, once again, desperately clinging to his one survivor.

_And I saw that the Lamb had opened one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures, as it were the voice of thunder, saying: Come, and see._

He'd hoped to slip away quietly the next morning, but of course Richelieu had other plans. Everything had to be a big procession with him. Eight men had come from the city the previous day, the mayor and seven aldermen. Richelieu had dragged them outside that morning, shivering in the crisp autumn air, to see off the musketeers.

Most of the men sat. Tréville was glad to see that small concession made to their emaciated state. The mayor, tall and impossibly slim, stood in conversation with Aramis. Porthos eyed them carefully but didn't intervene. That man might have been Aramis' captor once, but the past three months had taken their toll. He was far from threatening with his hollow cheeks and spindly arms. The relief was clear on his face, the siege finally brought to an end when he knelt in front of the king less than a day ago.

With a swish of his cloak and an imperious gesture to the underling who was attempting to follow him, Richelieu appeared at Tréville's side. Athos and Aramis were gathering instructions from the Rochellaise and Porthos held the horses, leaving Tréville alone to face whatever the cardinal wanted to discuss.

Richelieu led him a few steps away from the others and leaned in close, keeping his voice low.

"Stay, Jean." He pursed his lips. "Let your men ride alone."

"No."

Richelieu shook his head at the brusque reply. "We could hold counsel, an important matter… nobody would think any less of you."

Tréville crossed his arms. "My place is with my men."

"So little trust in your precious musketeers?" Richelieu sneered. He failed to acknowledge he'd lost that same argument the previous night.

"So little desire to let them come to harm." Tréville felt himself flush as his heart beat faster.

Richelieu mimicked his posture. "The king needs you here."

"The king is in good hands, the best," Tréville said. He looked at Richelieu, unsure what was wrong. There had been no intelligence to suggest that the king was in any danger. Certainly not now that the matter of La Rochelle had been resolved peacefully and to everyone's satisfaction. And yet, Richelieu seemed unduly agitated, his lips now pressed into a thin white line.

"Armand?" Tréville prompted.

"Fine. Have it your way." Richelieu turned on his heel, his back taut as a bowstring. "Get your impertinent head blown to pieces for nothing."

"Nothing? This is not…" Tréville scratched his cheek. Richelieu was once again surrounded by his men. He had apparently decided the best thing was to get it over with quickly and all but shooed the musketeers onto their horses.

Tréville glowered at him as they rode off. This unguarded display of emotion was not their usual approach. He brushed those thoughts aside as they rode towards the city, through the no man's land cluttered with fallen leaves and yellowed grass. He had a task to focus on and men to protect.

The gate was thrown wide for them. They entered the city without pause, the clatter of their horses' hooves echoing as they passed through the barbican. After all this trouble, riding into La Rochelle was so easy.

"No portcullis." Athos pointed above their heads. "Though we should have the gate pulled from its hinges to avoid being cut off."

Tréville made no reply. He was glad Athos thought of such things, but in that moment he couldn't speak. He slumped in his saddle. More than a year after the start of the siege, they were finally in La Rochelle, halting their horses in the small cobbled square beyond the gate.

They should move, should inspect the gate and scale the wall, but for a moment they were silent. There were people, but not nearly enough for such a large city. Deep-set eyes stared at them from gaunt faces. None of them said a word. If they were afraid of these hostile soldiers, none of them showed their fear, nor indeed any other reaction. Their faces were blank as if they were beyond such simple emotions.

_And there went out a horse that was red: and to him that sat thereon, it was given that he should take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another, and a great sword was given to him._

Tréville dismounted and approached a group of men by the wall. He held out his empty hands to show them he came in peace.

"Peace, Aramis," he breathed, noticing the man shift in his seat so he could aim his pistols at the Huguenots. An unnecessary precaution. None of these men looked strong enough to attack.

"We wish you no harm," he said out loud.

They did not answer. What was there to say? They would hardly welcome him, the conqueror, to their city. He knew he wouldn't have, had their roles been reversed. Catholic or Protestant, they were all soldiers and none of them liked the taste of defeat.

"And we can cause you none." One of the men stepped forward, his head held high.

Tréville nodded briefly at the words. He could respect courage and honesty in anyone.

"Captain Tréville of the king's musketeers." He held out his hand.

The Huguenot considered him critically. "Lieutenant Ribault of the La Rochelle guard."

His hair was still dark and his eyes sharp, but his skin was papery, stretched over prominent cheekbones. It was impossible to guess his age. As they shook hands, Tréville felt like Ribault's bones were grinding against each other. While he shook firmly, his fingers were as delicate as glass. Where the sleeve of his shirt rode up, the two bones of his forearm were clearly visible. His clothes hung loosely on his frame.

None of the others looked any better. Tréville nodded to them. "You have earned our respect. We could not breach your defences."

And yet he was here as the victor and they were clearly cautious, though none of them betrayed any sign of fear. They did not sneer at him but Tréville felt like they wanted to. He couldn't begrudge them that.

"My men and I will ride through the city and may inspect some parts more closely," he said, turning again to Ribault. "You have my word that no harm will be done and nothing will be taken."

"We shall not hinder you," Ribault said. "And as for taking—you cannot take what isn't here."

He stood tall, unwilling to be cowed even in defeat. A good soldier, a good musketeer maybe if only life had brought them together under different circumstances.

"You have protected your city well," Tréville said. "And even now you have laid down your weapons, it shall be protected. Discipline is strict in the royal camp."

"We pray that is true, but—" Ribault's voice faltered as he swayed on the spot.

Tréville reached out to steady him with a hand to the shoulder and for a moment the Huguenot leaned into it. He seemed to weigh no more than a child.

"How old are you?" Tréville asked as they stood close to each other.

Ribault shrugged off his hand and stood up straight once more. "Twenty-eight," he said. "I'll have the remainder of the guard alerted to your presence. They'll know to help you if you require assistance."

He turned away, ordering several of his men to different parts of the city.

Twenty-eight. The same age as Porthos. And yet his body was that of an old man, spindly legs barely able to hold him upright. None of his men looked any better. The ones now walking away moved in the slow, pained shuffle of the elderly.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said. "You do your duty with great dignity."

Because dignity was the only thing they had left him. Tréville wished he could give more than empty compliments. His heart cried out for these men who could, if fate had decreed another course, well have been his. They were all soldiers doing their duty on one side or the other. This time his men were the ones who were well-fed and equipped. He wished he could march these guards straight to Serge and a big kettle of soup, but he doubted they'd be able to walk that far. Men in their prime, unable to make their own way across a few fields. War had been his life's work, but sometimes he despised it.

He mounted his horse again and gestured to Athos.

"Lead the way." He was afraid more words would betray the roughness of his voice.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Aramis still held his pistol in his hand.

_And behold a black horse, and he that sat on him had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard as it were a voice in the midst of the four living creatures, saying: Two pounds of wheat for a penny, and thrice two pounds of barley for a penny, and see thou hurt not the wine and the oil._

As they rode, Aramis quietly pointed out the perches he would occupy as a sniper to get the best view of the main road. Tréville welcomed the confirmation that he'd been right to take Aramis. He wasn't needlessly traumatising the poor man even more after his recent captivity. They'd make sure to have men stationed in these spots to thwart any attempt on the king's life, or indeed the cardinal's.

For all Richelieu's apprehension, they encountered no resistance. The city was silent, not a single barking dog to be heard, nor any whisper in a doorway. Even the ever-present seagulls had apparently learned to avoid La Rochelle. The autumn wind did not drive any leaves through the roads, highlighting the complete lack of trees and bushes. They had probably been cut down for firewood long ago. Not even roots remained and Tréville wondered if those had been used for nourishment.

They reached a market square and his men instinctively spread out to make themselves less of a target in the vast open space. Hands on their guns they scanned the many doors and windows of the surrounding houses, trying to catch the glint of a gun or the flicker of a fuse, but spotting nothing.

Suddenly, Porthos urged his horse forward, towards a well at the other end of the square where several women and children stood. For a moment they all stiffened in their saddles, training their weapons on the group.

The women snatched any children they weren't carrying and hid them behind their skirts, staring fearfully at what must to them be terrifying enemies. Tréville never liked this. Porthos dismounted and walked towards the group. He smiled and spoke to them in a low voice. He looked calm, but Tréville was certain Porthos disliked this just as much as he did. While women and children had their place in war and were invaluable to the success of any army, he hated seeing them the victims of violence. They should be kept far from the front lines but the impact on them was of course the main weapon of siege warfare.

Aramis' eyes raced around the square and along the rows of empty windows. Tréville knew he should be on the lookout too, but he kept glancing at Porthos and the women. Porthos took the heavy bucket and lowered it into the well, then quickly wound it back up, water sloshing over the rim. Easy work for a strong man, but the strain would have been severe for these women. It was impossible to ignore how skeletal they all were. Their dresses threatened to slide off their shoulders. The arms and legs of the children were nothing but sticks, so thin a gust of wind might snap them.

The children were quiet, apathetic. They showed no reaction to the presence of four strange men. Children in Paris would always run. Sometimes towards them, squealing with excitement, and other times away from them in fear. These children didn't. After all these months of hunger, would they be able to run if they tried? Tréville shivered. A year was a very long time for ones as small as these. Some of them would never have known freedom. Little bundles in their mothers' arms. Born into a failing city, a failed religion.

"But he got his unconditional surrender," Aramis murmured, dragging Tréville from his thoughts.

The satisfaction of the Huguenots begging for mercy. Stroking Richelieu's ego for the price of a few thousand ordinary lives. How many had been lost to hunger already? For every emaciated child there must have been others who weren't so lucky.

"We need to do something for these people," Athos hissed. "These are young children, for heaven's sake."

Tréville actually heard Aramis grind his teeth before he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's too late."

"We could reroute supplies," Athos said. He knew, of course, that stores were low and supplies hard to get by, but Tréville admired his tenacity. "If we put the men on half-rations…"

"It's too late," Aramis repeated. "There's nothing we or anyone can do for them now."

Athos breathed out a small "oh" as the meaning of Aramis' words sunk in. Tréville's heart hurt for him, for that realisation that all soldiers had to face eventually. He himself had been much more experienced when he first understood how significant the impact of their actions and politics truly was on civilians.

"We should tell Porthos that." Athos bit his lips as they watched Porthos talk to the mothers, steadying them as they drank, and stroking the bony heads of their children. The image burned itself onto Tréville's eyes like a branding iron.

"He knows…" Aramis' hollow voice echoed in Tréville's ears. Porthos knew… He knew because he had been there. Because 28 years ago Tréville had condemned him to this, had abandoned a mother and child to hunger and misery. If Richelieu knew that he had happily gambled two lives for some young man's vanity, he'd denounce him as a hypocrite.

Tréville's throat constricted as he watched the one whose life hadn't been lost in his sick wager. He tightened his hands on the reins, making his horse snort impatiently. He couldn't let his emotions overwhelm him here. He had a task to complete and three men to protect.

He watched Porthos, tall, strong, intelligent Porthos, and told himself that it had worked out in the end, that Marie-Cessette would be proud of the man her son had become. Maybe even of the role that he… no, he shouldn't use that as his absolution. But she would be proud of Porthos, he decided, watching him cradle a small boy's head in his broad palm. A boy as sickly and thin as he might have been, talking to a mother who might well share Marie-Cessette's fate soon. And Porthos, for all his skill and kindness, would never make what Tréville had done justifiable.

"We should move on," Aramis said.

With obvious effort, Porthos tore himself away from the women and children. As he turned around, Tréville could see the tears running down his face. He was oddly relieved, like his own pain had finally found an outlet, however remote. He watched Athos and Aramis reach out for their brother, tiny reassuring touches that made them the family Porthos had been deprived of for so long.

_And behold a white horse, and he that sat on him had a bow, and there was a crown given him, and he went forth conquering that he might conquer._

Porthos' sniffles accompanied them as they rode. Athos' face did not betray any emotion, but Aramis was visibly upset. Tréville urged his horse on. Riding in front of them was easier. He never should have asked Aramis to come. He'd known what it would be like. It wasn't his first siege. Nor was it Aramis'. He knew that and he'd still made him come. After everything La Rochelle had already thrown his way.

"I was held there," Aramis said, pointing towards a tall, forbidding wall of light stone. "Beyond that is the town hall."

"What about the mayor, Guiton?" Athos asked. "Did you ask about his family?"

"Yes," Aramis said. "All five daughters still alive, thank God. He told me this morning."

"I'm glad." Porthos blew his nose. "Sorry… I got emotional."

"We all did," Athos said although he didn't look it. He'd developed a rare skill to give voice to Tréville's thoughts.

A guardsman showed them the stairs to the top of the wall. There was no sign of recent activity on the town hall's wall now, but of course they would have men up there during the king's visit to La Rochelle. Aramis pointed out a few spots with a particularly good view. Porthos made plans to barricade the stairs so nobody could follow their soldiers. Nobody wanted to risk any lives after victory had already been declared.

Tréville watched them revolve around each other. They didn't stop, didn't pay any less attention to their tasks, but they took every opportunity to show their support. Small touches and kind words of reassurance mingled with their duties. And even though Tréville wasn't part of their circle, he was comforted and encouraged by it. Seeing this city on its deathbed was terrible, but it wasn't an insurmountable horror, not with these three by his side. Together, they'd get through it. Together, they had rescued Aramis from the sea and nursed Porthos back to health. Together, they'd make it through this.

They drew closer to the church Richelieu was targeting for his mass. It wasn't badly situated, with enough space around to guide the king in safely. The church itself was fairly small, which would cause all manner of discontent among the men who couldn't get in but was helpful for security purposes. Easier to control a smaller space and fewer people.

In the manner of Protestants, the building was austere, without any statures or adornments. Whatever furnishings there might have been had been removed. More fire wood? While they would have to bring in seats for the king and his retinue, the bare space was another welcome discovery. Less nooks and crannies for would-be-assassins to hide in.

"See if you can find any side doors," Tréville said. "Athos to the left, Porthos, right-hand side, Aramis, have a look around the apse."

They scattered while Tréville examined the main door more closely. A sturdy bolt, but no metal reinforcements. No evidence of any hidden spaces in the narthex.

"Captain Tréville," Athos called. Tréville hurried over to him, half-way down the nave, and together they climbed a narrow spiral staircase.

Suddenly, a shout echoed through the empty church.

"Aramis." Athos cursed. Instead of going back down he sprang forward, up onto a gallery that ran the length of the nave.

Tréville followed, both of them scanning their surroundings with their pistols. The gallery gave them a view of the whole church. Below them, Porthos sprinted to the altar. He reached Aramis at the same time their eyes did.

Aramis was on the floor behind the altar, kneeling amidst several prone people in black robes. They watched him scoot from one figure to the next, two, three, four of them, at the same time trying to sense any impending attack.

"All dead," Aramis shouted and Tréville hated his own sigh of relief.

They searched the gallery and finished their round of the church before joining Porthos and Aramis. The two of them had laid out the four bodies next to each other. Aramis draped their clothes over wounds and wiped blood from their faces with his handkerchief. Not that it made much of a difference. The blood stood in great pools on the light stone, dried and congealed to a tar-like substance.

"Lord have mercy on their souls," Tréville said. "What happened here?"

It was as bloody a scene as he had ever seen and yet there were no footsteps leading away from it, no splashes of blood anywhere else. The horror was contained to this sheltered space behind the altar, which explained why they had seen nothing when they entered the church.

Aramis held up a small dagger, its blade and hilt encrusted with blood.

"They took their own lives," he said.

His words echoed in the empty building. They multiplied in the silence, repeating his verdict.

"But, aren't they…" Athos gestured at the men's severe black robes. "Priests or whatever it is they call them?"

"Pastors, yes," Aramis said. Of course. They wore white collars, though very little remained white beneath the blood.

"Isn't that sin for them as well?" Porthos asked. "You know to… you aren't supposed to take your own life."

Athos looked down at his feet as if he was trying to memorise the dirt on his boots. Aramis crossed himself. And Tréville knew… He'd had that conversation with both of them, had told them not to. For Aramis at least the sinfulness of suicide carried some weight, but Athos would probably have laughed in his face had it not been for his good manners.

"Better to die in sin than to live for whatever we bring," Aramis said. Tréville had rarely heard him so bitter.

Tréville sighed, remembering another time, another city. "It happens sometimes," he said. "The threat of falling into enemy hands is too much to bear."

Athos nodded. "Like the Jews of Masada."

"An ancient fortress in Judaea," Tréville said, mostly for Porthos' benefit. "Occupied by Jewish rebels. When the Romans finally took it, they discovered they had all killed themselves."

"They burned the whole town," Athos added. "Only left the storage buildings intact. Wanted to show that they could have lived but chose not to if life was to bend the knee to some worldly lord."

Porthos shook his head, his eyes once again bright with tears. "Those poor souls. And here they didn't even have the food."

"They still got to choose," Aramis said. "The leaders in Masada saw it as a favour from God that they could die brave and free. Not by…"

His voice trailed off and immediately his brothers' hands were on his shoulders.

"Not this time," Athos said.

"They couldn't have known." Aramis leaned into their touch.

Aramis was his survivor, his hope and mercy, and yet Tréville knew so little about him. There was a past here that he didn't know, some earlier trauma that went beyond Savoy. Something that made La Rochelle even worse than he'd known. Part of him hated his selfish decision to take his most trusted men without any concern for their wellbeing, but another part thrilled at their readiness to follow him, despite the yokes they all carried.

"We should say a few words for these unfortunate men," he said. Words for the dead and the living. He cleared his throat. He wasn't good at this. It was part of his position as captain, of course, but usually he knew the deceased and could say something personal. There was no preacher lost on him. But he wanted to do something that honoured these pastors and at the same time told his men that he hoped they'd never be in so desperate a situation.

" _Dominus regit me, et nihil mihi deerit_ ," Aramis prayed. Psalm 22, a natural choice. For him at least.

Then Aramis paused, coughed, and started again.

"The Lord guides me and I don't lack anything. He leads me to pastures and to refreshing waters."

Aramis' eyes darted around their small circle. Tréville bowed his head and folded his hands. He prayed so rarely these days; he assumed a psalm in the wrong language would hardly worsen his standing with the Lord.

"He restores my soul," Aramis continued, emboldened by their silent approval. "He guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name."

Who walked the paths of righteousness here? As they stood there, looking at the dead bodies of undoubtedly pious men, it did not feel like they had any claim to righteousness.

"For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death…" Aramis paused. Tréville wasn't sure if he was struggling to translate the next line or if he was struggling with the subject matter. Death had certainly cast his shadow onto them.

"I will not be afraid of evil things… when you are with me." Aramis' sonorous voice filled the church in defiance. "Your rod and your staff, they comfort me."

And although Tréville struggled to see God in any of this, Aramis' words comforted him.

"He prepares my table against those who… those who trial me." Aramis huffed, maybe in annoyance at his clumsy translation. "He pours oil on my head and fill up my cup… my cup, how glorious it is."

Tréville marvelled at his command of Latin and his ability to translate on the spot what Protestants spent many years poring over.

"And your mercy will follow me all days of my life."

God, where was that mercy now? Was it truly mercy that these men had been able to choose their own deaths? Was that the mercy his own men would one day pray for? Such was the life of the soldier, more often than not, but this day held particularly stark reminders of that truth.

"And I may dwell in the house of the Lord for length of days."

Tréville lifted his eyes up the stone pillars and into the wooden roof. The house of the Lord. And four men had indeed lived out the length of their days in it.

"Amen," Tréville said along with Aramis. To his surprise, all four of their voices rang out.

He was staring at Athos before he could stop himself. In all their time together, through all the services neither one of them had been able to avoid, he had never heard him say that word. Athos inclined his head slightly to acknowledge his disbelief.

Porthos rubbed his eyes. "That was…" His voice broke.

"Psalm 22," Athos said.

"It wasn't very—" Aramis started, but Porthos cut him off.

"It was beautiful. I never knew…"

How could he have known? _Dominus regit me,_ those words meant nothing to him. He must have heard them many times without knowing their significance. So many years without hearing of that heavenly guide. For all his own misgivings, Tréville pitied Porthos for not knowing Psalm 22. There was some comfort in religion yet. Aramis had just proven that.

Tréville tore himself away from his musings before they could lead down darker paths. They had a task to complete.

"Aramis, I want you to inspect the gallery," he said. "Determine how many men we'll need and where. You should probably be stationed up there tomorrow."

Another good, military reason to bring him here. Always let the best sniper pick his perch.

"Porthos, I doubt this can be cleaned, but maybe a rug…?" He trusted Porthos to find a solution for the dark stains on the floor. Even by Richelieu's standards celebrating mass standing in the blood of your enemies seemed rather macabre.

"I will ask a guard where we can bring the bodies," Athos said. "Nobody here will be able to carry them."

_And behold a pale horse, and he that sat upon him, his name was Death, and hell followed him. And power was given to him over the four parts of the earth, to kill with sword, with famine, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth._

They carried the first two men out of the church. Athos pointed towards a squat round tower that he'd been told was where they could bring the dead. A few onlookers watched with bowed heads as they made their sorry procession through the streets. Nobody said a word. Tréville wondered if they were afraid to pray. What did it look like to them, four musketeers exiting their church with their dead pastors in their arms?

In death, bodies had that peculiar way of becoming heavier than they ever had been in life. The bodies were still stiff. They had not died too long ago. A day, maybe two. After they had learned of the surrender? Or when the intention was first announced? At what point did men make that decision? His eyes drifted towards Athos, Aramis… He'd carried Aramis after Savoy. Would have carried him if… The weight in his arms became Aramis, became Athos when he had first joined and been so desperate for death.

The stiffness did not make them any easier to carry. Tréville was not in the least bit upset that Porthos had decided to partner with him, hoisting the dead man's upper body up so easily that Tréville had nothing much to do other than to ensure the pastor's feet didn't drag in the dirt.

Following Athos and Aramis, they manoeuvred their way up a short, inclining lane that ended in a well-trodden path up to the tower. It seemed an odd place to leave the dead, but then again morgues did not tend to be right on the market square. He should probably count his blessings that this place wasn't too far out of their way. They still had to explore alternative ways to and from the church in case an escape became necessary. Best to station men on several routes. Expect the unexpected.

The stench of rot and decay hit him like a fist to the face. Athos hesitated. Aramis' shoulders jerked as if he was gagging. They stopped at the doorway into the tower. There was no actual door. In fact, the whole structure had an air of neglect. Some bricks had tumbled to the ground and an adjacent wall was half collapsed. Maybe a cannon strike early on in the siege?

Athos gently lowered the feet he carried and drew his sword and pistol. They had not encountered any hostilities so far, but this would be the perfect location for royal troops to be lost to a hidden assassin.

Pistol and sword at the ready, Athos stepped into the tower. The door led into a short, curved corridor. It was impossible for them to see his progress. All of them shifted their burdens to put their hands on their pistols. The cold, smooth metal was a reassuring weight in Tréville's palm. At the slightest sound from Athos, they'd be ready.

But Athos was silent.

They listened so intently that Tréville could hear his own heartbeat. Still no sound from Athos. He did not want to rush him. There might be several rooms to search, but at the same time…

"Athos?" He tried to not sound worried. Athos knew how to look out for himself. At the very least they would have heard a struggle if…

"Coming." Athos' voice was muffled, but a moment later they could hear his slow steps approaching. Only his steps. Nobody was following him or had captured him. But they did not relinquish their hold on their weapons. One never knew.

"All clear." Athos nodded. "I'll take them myself."

He made to lift the first man over his shoulder.

"Don't be silly," Porthos said. "We'll all help."

Athos stood up straight, his face unreadable. "I do believe it better if I go on by myself. It is a rather gruesome scene in there."

Gruesome? Tréville stared at him trying to decipher what he meant.

"It's a morgue," he said. "We've all been in those."

Athos kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, grinding bone on bone until his pale skin shone red.

"It's somewhat more than a morgue in there."

Tréville gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. "We'll go together," he decided.

Athos flexed his fingers, then drew them into fists. "I'd rather—"

"Athos." He didn't give these three direct orders very often, but he'd make this one if he had to.

Athos' shoulders slumped. "Just us," he said with a long exhale.

"Nah," Porthos said, voice low and steady. He broadened his stance and set his jaw.

Athos frowned at his feet. His throat bobbed with a great swallow.

"Please don't," he said to Aramis. "I know you can but… don't do this to yourself. There's no need."

A chill raced down Tréville's spine. What was in that tower?

"Aramis, stay here. As a look out. We don't want to be cut off in case…" Athos looked pained.

Aramis shook his head. "Better to see reality than to dream of the horrors my mind will conjure to fill the blank."

He lifted the dead man up by the shoulders and motioned for Athos to pick up the feet again.

"I'm sorry," Athos mouthed, catching Tréville's eye before he moved. It took Tréville a moment to realise what he was seeing on Athos' face. Fear. Athos was scared.

Tréville's mouth went dry. He quickened his pace to stay as close to Aramis as he could. Athos was not prone to exaggeration so if he was so affected, it was only reasonable to fear the worst with Aramis. Aramis was a more than capable soldier, but he still carried deep wounds in his soul, wounds Tréville himself had hewn. This time, he'd be there if Aramis needed help.

"Oh God," Aramis said.

Tréville, walking backwards, collided with his back. He spun around, but not before seeing Porthos' mouth fall open. The dead pastor's feet dropped from Tréville's grasp as his hands went slack. He stumbled back, tripped over the corpse, and crashed hard into the rough brick wall.

"Oh God," Aramis repeated. "Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

He pressed a fist to his mouth, but his muffled voice continued its bewildered chant. His shock echoed Tréville's disbelief.

The tower had been ruined, its roof and upper floors destroyed to leave it open to the sky. They had stepped out onto a narrow balcony, with steps leading down to what would once have been a basement. Now there was no basement, no floor, no ceiling. Nothing but a vast round space filled with…

Oh God…

Bodies.

Dead men, women, and children.

Dozens, hundreds of them.

The entire tower had been filled.

Oh God.

He clutched his stomach, pressing both arms against it to try and suppress the nausea. Behind him, Porthos lost that fight. And Aramis… Aramis stood rooted to the spot, petrified, his fist still pressed to his lips. Tears were streaming down his face as Athos was trying in vain to get him to look away, but he made no sound.

Bile burned the back of Tréville's throat as he surveyed the scene. Closer to them were newer bodies, a day, a week old maybe. Further back lay older ones, rotting flesh hanging from their bony arms. He swallowed rapidly. He had to hold on, had to cling to any shred of control he could capture. He was their captain. These men looked to him for leadership. He'd failed Porthos before, had failed Aramis, he couldn't…

All these dead bodies… The last time he had seen bodies left to rot like this, had been at Savoy. That day still haunted him, but those twenty men were so few compared to this. Oh God, how many people lay here?

A crow rose from the far end of the tower, cawing loudly.

Tréville's knees buckled. He slid down the wall.

Oh God.

The crows.

He blindly reached for a stone and threw it at the birds. Leave him, leave the dead alone. They couldn't… He covered his face with his hands.

Mocking caws multiplied in his head as they rose into the air. Laughing at him and his powerlessness.

No.

He dragged his hands away.

Look at it.

This wasn't about him. He had to listen to Porthos, sobbing so hard he was gasping for air. He had to look at Aramis, now on his knees, eyes squeezed shut, and mumbling fervent prayers.

They were here because of him. He'd led them here. Commanded them. Because he needed help. Because he needed them.

"There were what… 25,000 or 30,000 people in La Rochelle before the siege?" Athos asked. "We can do a census of the remaining population to gain an indicator for how many bodies we are dealing with. I doubt that asking for a list of the dead would be effective. Undoubtedly, entire families have been wiped out."

Tréville blinked at him, stunned by this eloquence.

"To prevent the spread of disease, we have to organise burials soon," Athos continued. "For these… cremation would be easiest. The walls look sturdy enough and without a roof or any wooden interior, they should withstand the flames."

Tréville shook his head. "Richelieu won't stand for it. It is a heathen practice."

"Good Catholic burials for the lot of them." Athos nodded. "Of course. We can mark out stretches of land outside the city walls and bring men in to dig pits. If we institute a shift system, nobody will be exposed to this for too long."

There he was, planning, strategizing, doing what he did best. His rational approach was calming. Tréville took a deep breath. He held out his arm and let Athos pull him to his feet.

"Our first priority is to give everyone a decent burial," Athos said.

Tréville nodded even though he didn't agree. His priorities were torn between his two men who were still on the ground. But Athos had that covered as well. He was already standing behind Aramis, talking to him softly with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Tréville turned to Porthos who was rubbing his streaming eyes with the heel of his hand. A small part of all the tears Tréville had missed in his early years. He patted Porthos' back. With a great hiccup, Porthos finally quietened and looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

When Tréville held out his hand, Porthos cradled it in his own, running his thumbs over his knuckles, rather than gripping it to pull himself to his feet.

They all stood there in an awkward circle, careful not to step on the two pastors. Tréville noticed that Athos had skilfully manoeuvred them so he was the only one facing the pit of corpses. While there was no way to forget it was there, only Athos had to look at it.

"Gentlemen," Athos said. "I will make more permanent arrangements as soon as possible, but for now let us leave all four of them here on the platform as unfortunately, they cannot remain in the church."

He looked at each of them in turn and nodded. "Once more and then you'll have to see no more of this place."

They went and fetched the other two bodies. Aramis said another short prayer and then they left the tower and returned to their horses. They explored the city for another hour and made plans to ensure the king's safety.

Finally, they rode back to the gate. Together. The steady rhythm of their horses' hooves was reassuring. Their presence on either side of him made Tréville feel calmer even though he knew they were on their way to face the men whose friends and family lay in that tower, as well as the architect of their destruction.

But they were here together. It steadied him. Because together, they could weather this.

_I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held._ _And they cried with a loud voice, saying: How long, O Lord (holy and true) dost thou not judge and revenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?_

They were back the next day, at the head of Louis' victorious parade. A subdued affair, but it still felt too grand. Don't go, Richelieu had told him the day before. Don't go, Tréville had wanted to tell him as the parade assembled. At least there were no drums, no music or pageantry. The men marched in silence, the musketeers at the helm. Along the route, Aramis had stationed men on roofs and in windows, watching and guarding them from above. Tréville reminded himself of that. Aramis knew what he was doing. He trusted him. His men were safe and so were the king and the cardinal.

The residents of La Rochelle lined the streets. Richelieu's work. He'd sent the aldermen back with strict instructions on how to receive their victorious king. And what choice did they have? Emaciated bodies did their best to stand.

Louis had the decency to not wave, but he struggled to suppress a smile. He was the only one on horseback, Tréville and Porthos at his stallion's hindquarters, while Athos had a hand on the reins and Aramis both hands on his gun. The king felt safest with Aramis close. It was a good excuse for keeping Aramis here with them. Tréville could not bear the thought of him alone on some sniper's perch, couldn't bear to see these three separated that day.

Tréville caught Porthos' eyes across the horse's back and saw the horror reflected in them. Porthos understood the full magnitude of this human tragedy. Were the generals marching in front of them similarly affected? On their first excursion into the fallen city, did they see it for the mass grave it was? Richelieu had seen and understood. Tréville had gone with him before the parade, had shown him what they'd seen and had seen him dumbfounded by the sight of La Rochelle after the year-long siege.

The sanitised version they presented to the king now did not carry the same weight. Louis seemed untouched by the terror. And of course Tréville understood. The strategic significance of this victory could hardly be overstated. The Huguenot rebellion was broken, their threat to France all but banished.

For France, he reminded himself.

Louis' beaming face made his stomach clench. The king liked himself in that role. Louis the great. Louis the just. Louis the victorious. The commander in chief, the benevolent ruler. Of course Tréville understood. A decisive victory was essential after all the time and resources spent on this siege. This day cemented Louis' rule and his place in the history books. It took him not a step but a giant leap closer to his aim of a strong central government, a unified country, a force to be reckoned with on the global stage.

This day was for France.

And yet… the tears shining in Porthos' eyes… Aramis' stiff shoulders in front of him… Athos leading the horse like he had led them when the horror became too much… All three of them knew that no victory was worth the human cost paid at La Rochelle. And yet, here they were, following his command.

For France.

Reedy voices rose up into the crisp autumn air. A ghostly choir from beyond the grave. The residents of La Rochelle chanting their demanded praise:

"Long live the king who showed us mercy!"


End file.
